


Visions of Rapture

by IlanaNight



Series: Visions [1]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Prophetic Visions, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 15:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17469815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IlanaNight/pseuds/IlanaNight
Summary: Visions of a more.... intimate nature weren't uncommon for Indrid. But the same man keeps appearing- and it's not even someone he's met yet.





	Visions of Rapture

Most of Indrid’s sketches were come-and-go. He’d draw them in a blur, hang them on his walls, and do his best to make the connections between futures. And once a drawing was irrelevant, once a future had already passed, or the chance of it happening fell to zero, Indrid tore the page down and disposed of it, crumpled balls scattered on the floor of the Winnebago, or tossed into a fire when he was particularly upset by an outcome.

 

But some of them weren’t so volatile. Or so easily disposable.

 

There had always been… intimate visions. Indrid could see every future as the decisions were made that led towards it- it wasn’t difficult to see himself sleeping with someone actively pursuing him in a club, or tossing him a wink at a coffee shop. And sometimes he followed those paths, went home for a night only to disappear with the sun.

 

And sometimes he didn’t. But he always had the visions. And he needed somewhere to put them, to get them out of the mess of images and sound that flooded his head.

 

That’s what the notebooks were for. 

 

A couple of leather bound notebooks, tossed into a drawer or on a shelf, wherever he could put them that seemed innocuous enough not to draw attention. Sure, Indrid never expected visitors, but he could also never be too careful. It might seem uncouth to have lewd drawings of people he had never actually spoken to- or ones of people he slept with once a decade ago and never looked back.

 

Those notebooks didn’t get used nearly as often as the books upon books of paper thrown up onto the walls and torn down in cycles. It was always one-offs, single scenes, single sketches. Nothing more in depth than that.

 

At least, they _had_ been like that.

* * *

  
  
  


Indrid woke with a gasp, sheets stuck to him and dick aching, hard up against his stomach. Eyes closing again, he chased the memories of the vision, that pseudo-reality that felt so  _ close  _ only moments before. 

 

The figure had been blurry the first few times- which wasn’t unusual. Dreams like this weren’t always visions, after all. Sometimes Indrid was just lonely, and his body found a way to bring him some relief. But the same blurry figure visited his dreams again and again, getting clearer with each passing dream, and now he had the details almost memorized.

 

Hazel-green eyes nearly swallowed by dilated pupils hovered above him, glinting in between long, breathless kisses. Warm, so very warm- the mouth hot against his, the body above him, the hands that ran down his sides, feeling every inch of his skin like it was a work of art, something to be studied and admired. And the stranger’s mouth followed his hands, pressing hot kisses to his skin, and sucking bruises so real into his flesh, Indrid wouldn’t be surprised if he woke with them.

 

Little whines and purrs curled up from his chest, unbidden and unable to be stopped- the stranger’s mouth latched onto one of his nipples and his hand wandering further and further down, teasing at the dusting of hair trailing down from Indrid’s navel. His hands reached out, one sliding up into short, curly hair, and the other scratching down the stranger’s back, holding him tighter and closer. 

 

“ _ More,  _ **_please.”_ **

 

His own voice sounded distant in his ears, drowned out by every other sensation assuaging his senses. Indrid could taste salt on his tongue, a salt that was human and yet so  _ different  _ from any other that he’d ever tasted. His ears were strained to hear each low, little moan that came from the man above him- quieter than his own whines and yet somehow so much more forward in his own perceptions. And every nerve he had seemed to be on fire, burning where the stranger touched him, set aflame. 

 

“You’re beautiful, sweet pea…”

 

The words were whispered into his ear- soft and kind and fervent, almost like a prayer- and they sent a shiver down his spine. Indrid’s eyes rolled back into his head as he whined again, pulling the stranger closer and kissing down the strong column of his neck. 

 

“I want you-no, no.  _ Need  _ you. More of you.  _ Please.” _

 

Indrid begged like his life depended on it, clinging to the stranger like a rock in the ocean of sensation washing over him. A grin crossed the strangers lips, and he kissed his way back down, lower and lower, keeping eye contact the whole way down.

 

“I can’t say no to somethin’ like that- it’d be ungentlemanly of me.” 

 

Those words- not inherently sensual, not in the slightest- sent a shudder wracking down Indrid’s spine, his hands both going to the stranger’s hair, tugging and urging him to take those last few kisses, those last inches downwards. His head turned to the side, back arching off the bed in desperation.

 

Hands dug into his hips, drawing his attention as well it can, and a low voice cut through the fog of his mind, “Look at me, Indrid. I wanna see ya.”

 

Indrid couldn’t have resisted the order if his life depended on it, looking back to the stranger just as he licked his lips, swallowing Indrid down in one slow, teasing, smooth,  _ hot  _ motion.

 

_ “Oh,  _ god.  _ Duck!”  _

 

The name fell from his lips in the dream-vision as he came with a whine, the world of the present coming back into focus around him slowly as he caught his breath. His whole body was warm, sticky with sweat, and sprawled out on the floor where sleep had overcome him what felt like an eternity ago. Lazily, he brought his hand up to his mouth, unnaturally long tongue sliding out of his mouth to lick it clean, a grin on his lips.

 

Hands clean, or as clean as they could be without actually getting up and washing the lingering feelings of the dream off of him, Indrid reached for the sketchbook that was quickly becoming a book of study on the stranger.

 

No- not the stranger. Not the stranger at all.

 

Turning to a fresh page, Indrid scrawled  _ Duck  _ across the corner of the page, underlining it before he began to sketch, paying enamoured detail to the minutiae of his vision.

 

“Duck… You’re a menace… and I haven’t even met you yet.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I might be continuing this with further installments of Duck and Indrid actually meeting!
> 
> If you liked it, hop over to tumblr and drop me a line! http://ilananight.tumblr.com


End file.
